


Synonyms for "I Love You"

by justfandomthings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Eventual Romance, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justfandomthings/pseuds/justfandomthings
Summary: Instances where Sherlock kinda-sorta, but still didn't, say "I love you" and the one time he actually did.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As I will explain in my end notes, this is my first fanfic for the Sherlock fandom. Some information in this fic may not be completely accurate in ties to the show, which I apologize for in advance. Starting with the first few weeks as flatmates, this fic shows how Sherlock and John fell in love with each other- and came about to confessing these feelings. Each "drabble" to put it in a word, is based on a single quote from this tumblr post: http://quotes.tumblr.com/post/156512773087

******“How much sleep did you get last night?”**

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Sherlock asks without looking away from the window. 

John stops his walk into the kitchen. “What?”

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Sherlock repeats, turning away from the window to stare at his new flatmate. “Really John, it’s not a hard question to answer. And, you heard me the first time. I know you did.” 

“Fine I did,” John huffs. “A few hours, on and off. What difference does it make to you?”

“It makes every difference to me. If we get a murder today and are called in to assist, not only will you be risking your own safety, but also mine. You should know by now, as a doctor, that a lack of sleep slows reactions and can cause confusion. Imagine if we are chasing a suspect, why you could be easily overpowered! I don’t want to risk our lives because of your poor sleeping habits!”

“I love how you think I actually want to not be able to sleep!” John snaps angrily.

“Well, don’t you? You had your light on in your bedroom until at least half past three. How can you possibly expect to fall asleep if your light is on?”

John narrows his eyes, his temper flaring. “Look, you don’t know me. You don’t know me, you don’t know _anything_ about me so don’t pretend to know why I chose not to sleep!” He storms to the closet, grabbing his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. I can’t deal with this, not right now,” John replies, but his voice has lost all traces of anger. All that remains is sadness.

“Wait,” Sherlock says quietly as John opens the front door. “Don’t go.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” John rests his forehead against the open door and closes his eyes.

“Because I was… a bit… not good, okay?” Sherlock sighs. “I have no right to pressure you or yell at you about your lack of sleep. Especially when you are just staying awake to avoid having nightmares.”

John’s mouth falls open in disbelief. “How did you-”

“You’ve screamed in your sleep a few times.” Sherlock shrugs, sheepish. “I figured you wouldn’t want my help, so I’ve never mentioned it. You seem to foolishly believe your nightmares make you weak, and accepting help, for you, is the same as being pitied. And, you don’t like people pitying you.”

John huffs. “Why do I bother trying to hide anything from you? You have figured out everything else about me, you probably have figured the cause for my nightmares, haven’t you?”

“Memories of Afghanistan, no doubt.” Sherlock meets John’s eyes quickly before he looks down at the ground. “I’m, I’m not very good at this… but if you ever want to talk about your dreams, I’ll listen.”

Stepping back into the flat, John nods silently as he closes the door. A few nights later, John finds himself sitting in the kitchen, a steaming cuppa on the table in front of him, and Sherlock sitting across from him with his own cuppa in hand. “My therapist doesn’t even know about what my nightmares about,” he begins, “But, I trust you, so here goes nothing…”

 

 **“I appreciate what you do for me.”**  

John groans as he sinks into his armchair, curling into a ball and resting his head on the armrest before closing his eyes. He’s shared a flat with Sherlock for almost two months now, and instances like earlier today really make him wonder what he is doing and why he’s still here. And, with that final exhausted, frustrated thought, he dozes off in his armchair. Even when he hears people conversing in hushed, furious voices, he stays in his state of blissful slumber. He hears someone say his name, while someone else tells Sherlock he’s being a jerk, and the voices continue to raise until someone points out that they are shouting, and they go back to their furious whispering.

John’s too tired to care that people are talking about him, and continues to sleep.

Around three in the morning, Lestrade and Mycroft finally leave, if it’s any indication based on the lack of talking, and Sherlock’s annoyed, short responses. _It’s cold in here,_ John’s mind decides in his state of semi-consciousness, but before he can wake up to stumble his way up the stairs to his bedroom, he is wrapped in a warm, thick duvet that smells of Sherlock. _This is the duvet from Sherlock’s bed,_ John realizes. _That’s kind of him._

“Sleep well,” a gentle voice comes, and the voice is so soft and caring and gentle that John almost wakes up purely out of surprise. Sherlock Holmes has been many things in the time that John has shared a flat with him: angry, annoyed, furious, tired, _bored,_ lonely, needy, confused, self-centered… but never caring. Certainly never gentle. But this... this shows that Sherlock cares. About him.

John almost misses what Sherlock says next, his voice is so quiet. “I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have insulted your blog or what you do to help me on our cases.” Even quieter, “I know I don’t say this often enough, if it all, but I appreciate what you do for me.” A pause, “And, I appreciate every moment we spend together.”

John feels the duvet being secured around his body, can feel the warmth of a recently lit fire, and he hears the soft lullaby of Sherlock’s violin as he plays softly, and beautifully, and then everything falls silent as John drifts off into a deep, and peaceful rest.

And, times like this, John remembers why he loves living with Sherlock Holmes in 221B Baker Street.

 

 **“Did you eat enough today?”**  

Sometimes, on a case, Sherlock neglects basic human needs. He’s chasing London’s most dangerous criminals! Why would something so trivial, so small and unimportant such as eating or sleeping be necessary?

But, as it was rather harshly pointed out by Mycroft only an hour and twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds ago, _exactly_ , people do actually need to eat and sleep to function properly. Or, as Mycroft had put it, “What is _wrong_ with you? You claim to be the most intelligent man in all of London, and on occasion, in all of Britain, so how have you not realized that John is ill?”

To which, Sherlock had whirled around and faced his brother with wide eyes. “He is not sick! Just this morning, I calculated that his temperature is normal, his blood pressure is normal, and his pulse is strong. How does that make him ill?”

Mycroft had just rolled his eyes, saying in his monotone yet still _oh-Sherlock-it’s-so-obvious_ voice, “The man isn’t getting enough to eat, imbecile. He was in the army, so of course he can withstand going without meals for days at a time, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t affected- or weakened- by the lack of nourishment. You pull him out of bed during all hours of the night for a case, work the two of you for hours on end, and by the time you arrive to this flat that you call home, he barely has enough energy to stumble to bed before he goes to sleep. You call him your friend, take care of him!” And, with that loud retort, Mycroft had left the flat, umbrella tapping the floor ominously, if only to get on Sherlock’s nerves more than anything else.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you actually… cooking?” John asks confusedly, voice hopeful as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed across his chest.

“It would appear so, John. Wouldn’t it?” is the sarcastic reply.

“What’s the occasion?” John isn’t convinced that aliens haven’t landed in London and kidnapped his flatmate because this isn’t the Sherlock Holmes he knows. The Sherlock he is accustomed to won’t ever nip out to the market to buy milk, much less make dinner _._ They’ve been flatmates for five months, almost six, and Sherlock has probably only cooked once. Maybe twice, but that’s a stretch.

“No occasion, just felt that I should begin pulling my fair share weight of cooking around here. Is a roast alright?”

“Wha- yes, of course it is,” John stutters, slightly overwhelmed. “I’ll set-” He looks at the lab equipment set up on the table and restates, “Well, I’ll find, and then set the table.”

An hour later, dinner over with and both men rising from the table to begin the dishes, Sherlock asks uncertainly, “Did you eat enough today?” Suddenly, he’s concerned that Mycroft is right, and he is causing his friend to develop unhealthy eating patterns.

“I think so, why do you ask?” John rolls up the sleeves to his jumper so as not to get his jumper wet, and plunges his hands into the hot, soapy water.

“No reason,” Sherlock shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure you were eating well, I guess.” Even though John can tell his flatmate isn’t being completely honest, they leave it at that. At least John knows Sherlock cares about his welfare, and that’s something.

 

 **“Are you still hungry?”**  

“You’re staring,” John notes, brow furrowed as he observes the consulting detective sitting across from him.

“I am not,” Sherlock mumbles, looking away.

“Yes you are. What is it?” John presses, voice gentle.

“First off, Sherlock Holmes does not stare. He observes.” Sherlock huffs. “To suggest otherwise is an insult, John.”

“Mm, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Have it your way though, why were you _observing_ me?” John is sure to put emphasis on the word ‘observe’ and is rewarded by a small, approving smile from the other man.

Sighing, Sherlock says, “If you must know, I was observing your eating habits the last few days, and I’ve noticed something peculiar.”

“Oh?” John meets Sherlock’s firm gaze, and holds it.

“Yes, it appears that you are still hungry after each meal. Partly because fast food does little for a physical and fit man like yourself, and partly because in our line of work, fast food does not satisfy the amount of calories you burn when chasing a suspect. Mostly because we don’t eat regularly, and when we do, it’s cheap food like this, and that’s not healthy for either of us.”

John squirms under Sherlock’s unwavering gaze but doesn’t look away. If his burning cheeks are any indication though, he is blushing. He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to have read him so easily, but for crying out loud, this is Sherlock Holmes he is talking about, and as Sherlock once put it, he sees through everyone and everything in seconds. Realistically, he should be surprised it took so long for Sherlock to realize what was going on.

“I have to ask…” Sherlock stops, unsure, and then asks quickly, “Are you still hungry?”

John swears under his breath, barely audible, but Sherlock hears him just the same. “A little,” John admits, avoiding all eye contact.

“Good, because I’ve decided that this whole lifestyle of ours- the constant dashing about chasing murders, the odd hours of sleep because of chasing said murders, and the lack of quality food- is wrong, and is going to be fixed.”

“Fixed? Sherlock, you can’t stop someone from committing a murder, and Lestrade needing your help.”

“Not just my help. I believe Lestrade requires _our_ service, not just mine,” Sherlock admonishes quietly, and the comment is so unexpected, so unlike Sherlock, that John almost chokes on the water he is drinking. Ignoring the surprised look on the doctor’s face, Sherlock continues, “In response to your previous statement, I have calculated our schedule out, and I believe that we have control over one aspect of our poorly managed schedule: our eating habits. I think we should eat less meals out in restaurants, and more at home. We both know how to cook, do we not?”

“Well… yes. Of course we do,” John responds, unsure of where this is leading to.

“I thought so. Starting with our next case, we are going to make sure we eat at least one meal at home. Not only will that increase our nutrition, but it will also ensure we are eating healthier, and eating more food. Sound good to you?”

John grins. “Sounds great to me.”

Sherlock nods proudly. _See Mycroft? I do care. Maybe not about you, you annoy me, but John is nice. He’s my friend. I like him, and I do care about him._

 

 **“Thank you.”**  

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock whispers, mind frantic with things he can say and things he can do that would help comfort his friend, who woke up screaming from a nightmare only minutes ago.

“It’s not okay,” John says shakily, wiping his eyes as he climbs out of his bed and walks over to his window, peering out at the darkened city around their flat. “It’ll never be okay. My nightmares will always haunt me. The limp has been cured, my hand has almost stopped shaking altogether, but the dreams… I’ll never shake the dreams.”

“Maybe not,” Sherlock agrees sadly. “But, you’ll never have to suffer through them alone.” He pauses, hoping what he says next is the right thing to say. Emotions aren’t his thing, never have been, but for John, he’ll make an exception. “I’ll be here for you through it all.”

“Sherlock…” John turns around, surprised. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you._ ”

John looks confused. “Sorry?”

“You’ve supported me from the beginning. You’ve cared for me, worried about me, and saved my life. Countless times in fact, in more ways than one. I know that I’m late in saying this; a year, three months, and two days late in saying this to be more precise, but thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” John gives Sherlock a small smile before crossing the distance between the men and hugging Sherlock tightly. “You’re amazing,” he whispers.

Sherlock freezes, not expecting the physical contact of a hug, or the complement. It’s an unsaid rule that he does not like to be touched, nor does he like touching other people. Not that they’ve ever had a reason to touch each other before, but they’ve never really touched each other besides the occasional handshake or hand to help each other up after a fall. Additionally, he’s not used to someone caring about him. Their first case together, in the cab when John had complimented his deducing skills, that was the first time that Sherlock can recall ever truly being complimented. Since then John has praised him countless times, and as much as he tried in the beginning, Sherlock has long given up trying to block out the rush of pride and happiness he feels when John makes his astonishment and praise known about the detective. Now, he fully accepts that having John in his life means feeling happy, and that’s an emotion Sherlock rather enjoys experiencing.

John begins to pull away from the hug, muttering an apology and something about knowing Sherlock is uncomfortable with physical contact, but is stunned silent when Sherlock pulls him closer and hugs him. As John melts into the strong and caring arms that hold him, Sherlock murmurs, “You are quite the extraordinary man yourself, John Watson.”

Sherlock can almost feel the soft smile that appears on John’s face, and in this moment, he decides that he would be quite content with hugging the doctor on occasion.

 

 **“Is there anything I can do to help?”**  

“Sherlock?”

“What, yes, what is it, John? Are you in any pain, can I get you anything?” Sherlock stutters quickly, voice betraying a specific emotion he thought he had deleted long ago: worry.

“Stop worrying about me.” John opens his eyes and glances over at the detective briefly before closing his eyes again. “I’m fine.”

“Your definition of fine, and my definition of fine are much different.”

“Look, it’s just a few cracked ribs. I can breathe okay, I don’t have a head injury in any way whatsoever, I am aware of my surroundings, I haven’t blacked out… I am fine.”

“John, he _hurt_ you. That is not okay. It is not acceptable. I should be out there, hunting him and catching him so I can break his ribs and give him a dose of his own medicine! See how he likes having his ribs cracked,” Sherlock frowns, muttering under his breath. It’s apparent that the incident with the murderer has rattled Sherlock, and has concerned him. Both he and John have been hurt before, but this is the first time John has ever been seriously hurt before, and Sherlock’s positive he never wants something like this to happen again.

They had been chasing the suspect ( _they always run, why do they always run_?) with Sherlock in the lead and John trailing closely behind him. Sherlock had rounded the corner first, and had been immediately tackled to the ground by their suspect. Somewhere between hitting the ground painfully and seeing the suspect reaching for some unknown object on the ground besides Sherlock, the suspect had been tackled off of Sherlock. By the time the detective had stumbled to his feet, John was crumpled to the ground, arms wrapped around his chest as the suspect ran off into the night.

“Sherlock!”

The detective blinks, snapping out of his frantic thoughts. “What, sorry, you were saying?”  

John manages a weak, teasing smile. “If you want to hurt him so badly, why aren’t you out there then?”

Sherlock sighs, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because he _hurt_ you, John! I’m not about to leave you alone when you could be bleeding internally or could be seriously injured and just not be aware of it yet!” He pauses. “Plus, I don’t trust myself with him.”

“Pardon?”

“He hurt you-”

“So you keep saying,” John teases lightly as he struggles to sit up on his own. He winces at his movement, and Sherlock is quick to get out of his armchair and help John sit up.

“Take it easy,” Sherlock orders. “My point is, he caused you harm. If I were to go after him right now, and catch him…” He hesitates, surprised by how quickly his next words come, “I don’t think I’d be able to stop hurting him until he was dead; my anger at him right now would overwhelm all rational thought and I’d either beat him unconscious, which by the way, I would not feel bad about, or I would beat him unconscious and then kill him.”

“That’s kind of you.” John pauses, considering. “Okay, maybe not kind as far as murdering the guy goes. But, it’s kind of you to want to protect me like that.”

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, not accepting the praise. “Is there anything I can do to help? Make you a cuppa, or dinner? We haven’t eaten yet.”

“Are you offering to cook?” John raises an eyebrow, curious.

“That’s what I just said,” Sherlock points out slightly huffily as he sits down besides John on the sofa.

“I’m not particularly hungry right now, but thanks anyway.” John hesitantly reaches out and places a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Thank you.”

Smiling gently, Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own. “You’re welcome.”

 

 **“I’m worried about you.”**  

As they have learned long ago, perhaps going as far back as their first case together, their lives can never be simple. Or quiet. Or, for that matter, painless. It’s eighteen months into their friendship- and partnership- when what seems to be a simple case ends badly when John is taken hostage by the murderer. Of course Sherlock saved him, Sherlock would never let any harm come to his friend if he could help it, but sometimes pain can come in non-visible forms.

And, sometimes the mental and emotional wounds are more critical than the ones that meet the eye.

“What is it?” John snaps, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he leans forward on the sofa, avoiding eye contact with his friend. “You won’t stop staring at me.”

“What did he say to you?”

“What?”

“The murderer. When he was holding you hostage. What did he say to you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“It matters because he has very clearly upset you, and I want to help you.”

“Look, it’s not important, okay? Can we just drop it?”

Sherlock sighs, thinking of how to express his feelings in a way that will show John that he cares about him. “I’m worried about you,” he blurts, and feels his own eyes widen. He wasn’t expecting that, but the more he thinks about it, the more he knows it is true. He is worried about John; he has been since he first shot and killed the murderer, and had had John stumble into his arms, free from the man who had held a gun to his head for over an hour.

“Are you really?” John whispers, and his words feel like a stab to the heart for Sherlock because John has never questioned him before. Clearly the murderer said something that had made John feel insecure about their friendship, but that’s the least of Sherlock’s concern when he sees the tears filling John’s eyes. His primary concern now is to comfort John; finding out what the jerk said to him can come later, as it’s not like Sherlock can punish him for what he did because the man is already dead. The man has already gotten his just deserved.

“Yes, I am.” Sherlock walks over and kneels on the ground in front of John, placing a tentative hand on John’s knee. “This isn’t your first time having your life in danger, so why are you so upset? What did he say to you? Please, John, let me in. Let me help you.”

Perhaps it’s Sherlock’s pleading voice, or the raw emotion in his voice that makes Sherlock’s concern and care evident, but either way, John feels his resolve shatter as he begins to cry. He briefly worries he’s overstepping their boundaries and making Sherlock uncomfortable when he leans forward and buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, but his worries are put to rest when he feels Sherlock wrap his arms around him, holding him close.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sherlock murmurs, lips brushing John’s temple, and in the arms of his best friend, and in the safety of their flat, John actually believes that things will be okay.

 

 **“Do you need me to spend the night?”**  

“Do you need me to spend the night?” Shrlock asks quietly, eyes never looking away from John’s blue-green eyes. He’s afraid that if he looks away, he’ll see the bruises and cuts that cover John’s face and rest of his body, and he’s not sure he can handle seeing that. He’s not sure he can handle seeing the physical reminders on his best friend that silently taunt him: _See these marks of pain? These should be yours. You should be the one spending the night in the hospital, not John. Never John. He doesn’t deserve the suffering you have put him through. All the pain he’s in? It’s your fault…_

“I’m not sure that’s allowed,” John responds, frowning with concern as he spots the tears welling in Sherlock’s eyes. “Sherlock, I’m okay.”

“No you’re not okay. You are hurt and spending the night in the bloody hospital. That is _not_ okay!” Sherlock explodes furiously. “You _idiot._ Why did you push me out of the way of that car? You should have let me got hit, not have taken the hit yourself!”

“The driver was not trying to say hello, Sherlock. He was trying to kill you. I was not going to sit back and watch my best friend get hurt! I did what I had to do, and given the choice, I would do it all over again if it meant protecting you!” He pauses, recognizing how his best friend is feeling. “None of this is your fault, Sherlock.

“You almost died,” Sherlock whimpers. “I almost _lost_ you.”

John’s expression softens and he gingerly scooches over to one side of the bed, patting the space available to him. Sherlock sits down next to him, and John leans over, careful not to aggravate his various injuries. Sherlock wraps one arm around John’s waist and relaxes as the doctor settles against him. Given their close proximity, Sherlock can feel every beat of John’s heart, and the steady rhythm is comforting.

“It’s going to take a lot more than some pathetic loser to take me away from you,” John informs Sherlock gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.” Sherlock takes a shaky breath and exhales. “Just... seeing you stretched out on the pavement, unmoving and bleeding and so still… that scared me.”

“I’m sorry.” John sighs, moving closer. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“You asked me if I needed you to spend the night. My answer is yes. I both need and want you to spend the night with me, please. Regulations be damned.”

Sherlock nods, closing his eyes as he settles down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

 **“My phone will be right by my pillow.**  

“My phone will be right by my pillow,” Sherlock informs John softly, watching his friend with a worried expression on his face. “Just text me if you need anything, alright?”

“Okay.” John sniffles and then coughs sharply, wincing at the wet sounding cough.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sherlock asks hesitantly. It’s been a little over two years now since they have become flatmates, and although they have both had their fair share of colds in that time… John seems much more ill this time around. He definitely has something more than a cold.

“Sherlock, I’m a bloody doctor. It’s just a bad cold with a nasty sounding cough. I’m _fine._ ”

“Fine,” Sherlock crosses his arms. “If you say so. Just the same, either holler if you need something or text me. I’ll come running.”

“You make it sound so critical.” John closes his eyes. “Please tell me I don’t baby you like this when you are poorly.”

“Baby!” Sherlock sputters. “I am not babying you!”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

John laughs, but his joy is short-lived when another bursts of painful coughing takes away his breath. “You sound like a child,” he wheezes, the pain in his eyes reflecting his discomfort.

“So do you,” Sherlock teases, but his voice is laced with worry. “You know what, don’t bother texting me if you need something. I’ve decided to retire right here with you. Move over.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to get sick if you sleep here,” John protests weakly.

“Move over,” Sherlock says firmly, sliding under the covers besides his best friend. “I don’t really care if I get sick. My main concern right now is taking care of you.”

“You know something?” John murmurs, shivering as he snuggles closer to Sherlock and the body heat he provides.

“Hmm?”

“Anyone and everyone who says you don’t have a heart, have never taken the time to get to know you personally.” John yawns and cautiously lays his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I suspect that under that mask of yours, you’re an old softie.”

Sherlock is quiet, considering. “If I were truly an ‘old softie’ as you say I am, I’d only show that side of myself to you.”

“Why me?” John breathes sleepily.

“Because you’re the person who I’ve ever shown my heart to.” Sherlock pauses and adds, “You’re the only person I’ve ever truly cared about, John.”

“And you’re the only one… I’ve ever cared about…” John trails off, slipping into unconsciousness.

In the silence that follows, Sherlock whispers, “When I went to Mrs. Hudson’s flat earlier and asked her for tips on how to take care of someone who is ill, she told me that she thinks I like you in a romantic way. And, if this is what it feels like to have feelings for someone, then I never want to lose these feelings I think I am developing for you.” John, fast asleep, doesn’t hear anything Sherlock tells him, but for now, Sherlock decides, it’s okay that John doesn’t know how he feels about him. Maybe he can tell him later, some day soon when John is feeling better.

Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

 

**“Call me, please.”**

_“If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.”_  

_“If convenient, come anyway. SH.”_

_“John, answer my texts. SH.”_

_“Ignoring me won’t make me stop texting you. SH.”_

_“In fact, ignoring me will make me text you that much more. SH.”_

_“John, if you are still reading these texts, this is not funny. You always answer my texts, even when I send you ten in two minutes. SH.”_

_“I know you are upset, this was a difficult case. Answer my texts. SH.”_

_“Better yet, come home. SH.”_

_“Call me, please. SH.”_

“John.” Relief is prominent in the emotions expressed in the breathed name, and John winces when he realizes just how much concern he has caused his best friend.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry…” John whispers, rubbing his temple. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way home.” John sighs, hating how small and weak he feels as he says quietly, “Sherlock-”

“I’m here.” The _waiting for you to come home to me_ part goes unsaid, but John understands the double meaning in his friend’s words, and is thankful when the cabbie turns onto Baker Street. A minute and a half later, John is running up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, and into Sherlock’s open arms.

“I’m so sorry,” John murmurs, voice muffled by Sherlock’s shirt, and in the safety and protection of Sherlock’s arms, John breaks down in tears. Sherlock doesn’t let him go, and continues to hold him well after they have moved to Sherlock’s bed, laid down together, and John’s tears have subsided and they are laying there together, in the comfort and safety of each other’s presence.

After that night, John begins to develop feelings for Sherlock. Feelings that have most certainly been there from the start, but have always been carefully hidden away… until now.

 

 **“Put the phone away while you’re driving.**  

“Put the phone away while you’re driving. Texting and driving...you could get in an accident and seriously injure someone,” Sherlock tells the cab driver snappily. The _could seriously injure John_ part goes unsaid, but based on the fierce look in his eyes, John can tell Sherlock is concerned about his welfare. John tries to ignore the exciting feeling he gets when he is reminded that Sherlock cares about him. “John, when will you be back?”

“The convention is for two days, so I’d say mid-Thursday? Why, you gonna miss your blogger, and having no one to bounce theories off with?”

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. “I suppose, but I’ll also miss having my best friend around.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “You know, no one around to annoy.”

“Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft...Lestrade?” John grins. “You won’t annoy them? Just like to annoy me, huh?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

“Now I feel special.”

“You should,” Sherlock responds without thinking.

John blushes, giving Sherlock a small smile. “You are welcome to text me, by the way. Tell me who slept with who, who’s the prime minister, the order of the planets, how the earth goes around the sun… you know, important things like that.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock exclaims with a widening grin as he laughs. “Get out of here, you. Get. On your way now!”

“Yessir,” John salutes, loving the banter between them and the way Sherlock shines with joy when they are playing around.

“Oi!” Sherlock nudges John with his shoulder, pushing him closer to the open door of the cab. “Have a safe trip, okay?” he says quietly, meant for John’s ears only.

“I will.” John smiles and climbs into the back of the cab. Sherlock watches until the taxi cab disappears around the corner and trudges up the stairs back to their now lonely flat. Nothing is the same without John, and he only just left.

_I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, living here alone, without me and thinking I had killed myself. I caused him so much pain and I can never make it up for him. All that time he spent grieving with no one except Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and even then, he pushed them away… I don’t give John enough credit, he is truly a very strong person, certainly stronger than I am. Stronger, kinder, and braver as well-_

“You like him, don’t you?” A voice breaks into his thoughts, and Sherlock smiles, turning around to see his landlady and good friend in the kitchen unloading bags.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I like John. He’s very nice, loyal, smart-”

“Fine, you are in love with him, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hudson laughs as she stocks the refrigerator with food.

“What makes you say that?”

“You didn’t deny it, and you always brighten up the second John walks into the room. Really, you look at that boy with hearts in your eyes, and it’s a wonder you haven’t noticed he does the same with you. Plus, you’ve been staring out the window for the last fifteen minutes. You didn’t even notice me come in. Thinking of him, eh?”

Sherlock pulls out his mobile after hearing a ding alerting him of an incoming text. _“Sherlock.”_

Something isn’t right, John never just texts him by just saying his name. Usually it is Sherlock who starts their conversations anyway, not John. “Something’s wrong,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Wrong, with John?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to Mrs. Hudson, typing out a quick reply and pressing send.

_“John. What’s wrong? SH.”_

_“The cabbie, I don’t trust him.”_

_“What is he doing/saying? SH.”_

Inside the taxi cab, John glances at his driver quickly before glancing down at his mobile. _“He’s not going the right route, we’re headed in the opposite direction. I don’t think it’s on accident either.”_

“Who are ya texting?” the cabbie asks curiously, but his voice is suspicious, as if he knows John is talking to Sherlock.

“My sister,” John lies easily.

_“John, get out. Sounds like a trap. SH.”_

The cabbie slams on the brakes, stopping the car suddenly. John lurches forward, dropping his mobile at the sudden movement. “Shit,” John swears, fumbling to grab his mobile and then he hears two doors open. He sits up quickly, mobile in his hand, finding himself face-to-face with two handguns. Two men, to be exactly, one on either side of him and they are both pointing handguns at him.

“John Watson,” one man says, cocking his gun ominously. “You’re coming with us.”

“If I refuse?” John’s mind whirls frantically. Why are they after him? There’s been no threats, Moriarty is dead… who is trying to kidnap him and why?

“Then you’ll end up with two bullets in you, one on either side of your skull,” the other man replies.

John looks forward and sees that the cabbie has even drawn a gun on him. He’s got no way out of this- wait. He thinks quickly, mind deducing as he is sure Sherlock would if he were here, and almost relaxes when he draws a conclusion. “Go ahead then. Shoot.”

“What?”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” John says firmly. “You’re trying to use me as leverage against Sherlock, and that means you can’t shoot me. You kill me, and you have nothing to use on Sherlock.”

_“John? SH.”_

John’s feels his mobile vibrate in his hands.

“Not if we don’t shoot you in the head. We can make you _hurt_.”

_“John? SH.”_

_“Kidn”_ John sees the gun swinging at his head, opts to send the incomplete message because he knows Sherlock will figure it out, and he manages to press send just as the gun connects with his head. He sees stars and there’s a blinding pain in his head, and then everything goes black as he slumps over unconscious.

The silence from John is worrying, and Sherlock is dialing Mycroft’s number to tell him to track the cab John’s in when his mobile dings.

_“Kidn”_

Sherlock’s heart clenches painfully. John’s message wasn’t completed when it was sent, meaning John knew he had only a second to send a message. Which means John has not only been _kidn_ apped but he’s also probably been hurt, judging by the decision to send an incomplete message to inform Sherlock of what was going on, probably before he was captured or before he was knocked out so he could be moved. No way John is going to be transferred in the same cab he is in now, that would be too easy.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks anxiously, seeing the dark and worried expression on Sherlock’s face.

“John has been kidnapped, and most likely injured. I’m calling Mycroft, and I’m going to find John and bring him home safe and sound,” Sherlock says firmly. He looks at Mrs. Hudson and she sees the raw pain in his eyes, and can tell he is more upset than he is letting on.

Sherlock knows John won’t see his reply, but sends a text in response anyway. _“I’m going to find you, John. You’ll be okay, I promise. SH.”_

 

 **“Don’t forget to buckle up.**  

“Don’t forget to buckle up,” the bodyguard snickers ominously at the injured doctor. “Oh wait, you can’t. Aw, shame.”

“You won’t get away with this,” John growls, struggling against the bonds holding his wrists and ankles together. He glares hatefully at his captors, who are sitting on either side of him in the back of the car. The driver and passenger of the car are unknown thanks to the darkened glass between the front and back of the car, but John assumes the passenger is at the very least in charge of the two goons besides him.

They’ve clearly transferred cars and even though they haven’t driven anywhere yet, it’s clear that it is very nearly nighttime based on the setting sun and darkened sky. He must have been unconscious for hours. Although his head pounds with a fierce headache, John is confident he only has a slight concussion at this point. That appears to be his only injury. He can only pray Sherlock received his text and is well on his way to locating him. “Sherlock-”

“Sherlock will what, make us pay?” The second bodyguard chuckles. “Doctor, if you think that man is coming to save you, forget it. Why, if anything, he’ll shake our employer’s hand and thank him for ridding him of you when this is all said and done. To him you’re nothing but a burden, and on occasion, someone who can take his pain away. Tell me something, is it true that you are shagging him?”

“I’m not his boyfriend!” _But, I want to be._ John tries to ignore the sting at the man’s words, but it’s hard to do so when he is suggesting that the man John is falling for might not even care about him. John shakes his head. _No. He’s trying to get into your head. Don’t pay any attention to him._

“Not according to the rumors on the street!”

“Someone is spreading lies then.”

The car lurches forward suddenly, and John is thrown forward as the car speeds away from the warehouse. He wishes now that he could have headed the bodyguard’s warning and buckled- but he doesn’t really have a free hand to buckle himself with.

“Hang on tight!” One of the bodyguards shouts, laughing, and John almost swears because he’d like nothing more than to be able to strap himself in or at least hold onto something, _anything_ , to keep from flying into the glass directly in front of him.

The car swerves, the driver purposefully driving like a maniac as the car goes in circles, faster and faster, and John is doing everything to avoid the glass and without any notice, the brakes slam on and the car stops moving. John falls forward, head slamming against the glass, and there’s a taste of blood in his mouth and something warm and sticky sliding down his forehead, and then everything disappears as his eyes close and he once again blacks out.

When John regains consciousness, the first thing he is aware of is the sound of one familiar baritone voice chanting his name. “John, John, John, _John._ Wake up. Please wake up.”

 _Sherlock._ John thinks. _Sherlock._ His head pounds and he decides that’s enough thinking for now. There’s probably a good reason why Sherlock is saying his name and wanting him to wake up, but he’s so bloody shattered. Can’t Sherlock wait a few hours?

“Oh God, John, this is all my fault. They wanted to use you as bait to lure me out… you never should have gotten kidnapped, much less hurt. Please John, _please_ wake up…”

“Sherlock?” John mumbles, the frantic tone in Sherlock’s voice nudging him into semi-consciousness.

_“John!”_

“My head hurts…”

There’s a relieved sob. “Yes, I know. You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

“M ‘kay.” John pauses. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock squeezes John’s hand and blinks away tears. He is going to find the assholes who did this to his John; who tied him up, hurt him, and then deposited him in the street in front of their flat like John was garbage, and he’s going to make their lives a living _hell_.

“Did you tell me to make sure to buckle up?”

“What?”

“In the car… you told me to buckle up, ‘cept I couldn’t ‘cause I was tied...” John slurs tiredly. He opens his eyes and winces against the sudden light. “Where are we?”

“In the hospital. You have a mild concussion. What do you remember?”

John frowns. “Being grabbed. We were in a warehouse...I think, and I was tied up and forced into a car, told to buckle up…” He pauses, thinking. “The car was fast. I hit the glass… must've blacked out…” Another pause. “Why did he tell me to buckle up if he knew I couldn’t?” He’s still confused, both from the pain medication and the mild concussion, which brought along confusion and one hell of a headache.

 _Because he wanted to torture you by telling you to do something that would protect you, while knowing fully well that you couldn’t protect yourself._ “I don’t know,” Sherlock lies.

“Oh.” John’s voice is small.

“Okay, that’s enough for now,” Sherlock says quietly. “Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Where are you going?”

For a moment, Sherlock almost says that he’s going to find the men who did this to John so he can punish them. But, upon seeing the pleading look in John’s eyes, shrugs and says, “I’m getting into bed with you. That’s the only place I’m going.”

“Okay. Good.” John moves over and makes room for his best friend and once Sherlock lays down next to him, he murmurs thoughtfully, “You know…” He trails off, deciding not to tell Sherlock about something his kidnappers said to him. “Never mind.”

Sherlock doesn’t press the issue, knowing John will mention it on his own time if he feels comfortable. Deciding to ease his best friend’s clearly evident nerves, he says, “Hey, John.”

“Hmm?”

“Tomorrow, when we go home, don’t forget to buckle up.”

John giggles. “Okay, Sherlock. I won’t.” He hesitates, sobering, and when he speaks again, he sounds like his concussion has cleared and his concussion is gone. “When the man told me that in the car, I knew he just wanted to rattle me. When you say it, I know it’s because you care about me and want to keep me safe.”

“You’re right, I do care about you. I like you and I care about you more than you’ll ever know.” Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“I guess we’re on the same page then, because you’ll never know how much I care about you and like you either,” John murmurs, his voice wistful.

“Someday, why don’t we tell each other how feel then, eh?” Sherlock surprises himself, but finds himself desperately hoping John will agree.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Sherlock smiles, hopeful. Someday.

 

 **“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it for you."**  

“Where are we going, John?” Sherlock asks impatiently. “I thought we were going to Angelo’s.”

“Nope, we’re going home,” John replies, chuckling. “You don’t like surprises, do you? You always have to know everything about what is going on.”

“I don’t mind being surprised, but that’s because I’m a very hard person to surprise. You’re right on one account though, I hate not knowing things.”

“Well, if you must know, I’m making a roast for dinner.”

“When did you go to the market?"

John laughs. “I snuck out when you were sleeping yesterday.”

Sherlock pouts. “You should have told me you were leaving.”

“What, and wake Sleeping Beauty?” John gives a gasp of horror. “Never!”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Sherlock says fondly, bumping his shoulder against John’s. John laughs loudly, eyes shining happily as he stares at his best friend. For a minute, the back of the taxi cab falls silent as the two men stare at each other, lost in each other’s eyes… and for a split second- almost so quick that John almost didn’t realize it- Sherlock glances back at John’s lips before looking back into his eyes.

“So, how long have ye two been together?” The cabbie shouts from the front, and the moment between the two men is broken. They both jump, startled, and when Sherlock glances over at John, he sees a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. He must be reading his best friend wrong, but John looks… disappointed that the cabbie had interrupted them?

Is it possible that John returns his feelings? Sure, John had said in the hospital that Sherlock had no idea about John’s feelings for him, and he had said the same… but John had had a concussion, and Sherlock had always thought the confession was induced by the pain medication and confusion as a result of the concussion. It’s been months since that day, and neither of them have ever brought up their conversation; in fact, that night in the hospital has never been mentioned at all. Especially not the following morning, when they had woken up wrapped in each other’s arms, in front of Lestrade, Mycroft, _and_ Mrs. Hudson, the latter who had never let them forget that morning- constantly bringing it up to both men in private when the other wasn’t around.

Sherlock feels like groaning. He’s so confused, and he doesn’t know how John feels about him, and he hates not knowing something- especially something this important! As for his own feelings, Sherlock doesn’t even know what he feels. He’s been attracted to women before, and the occasional man, but he’s never felt the way he feels about John. To him, John is the air that he breathes, the sunshine on his rainy days, and his solitude, as well as the person he really _cares_ about. Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s just very, very attracted to John, or if he’s in love. He’s never felt like this before, and that scares him.

John shoots a gauging look at his flatmate before he says in reply to the cabbie, “We aren’t together, actually.”

“Aww really? You coulda fooled me!” The cabbie laughs. “221B Baker Street, is that right?”

“Right.” John avoids Sherlock’s eyes, knowing Sherlock has figured out- and is questioning- why he didn’t respond in his usual manner to the question of being with Sherlock- “I’m not gay!” or “I’m not his date!” His response now sounded….well, it sounded wistful. Like John wished he could be with Sherlock. Which he does, of course, but no one knows that except him… and maybe Mrs. Hudson who seems to be able to figure out everything about him when it comes to his feelings. Which is why she had convinced him to break up with Mary when they were together, when Sherlock was “dead”, because she could tell that John wasn’t in love with Mary. John makes a mental note to thank Mrs. Hudson because she was right; he never would have loved Mary. There’s really one person he’s ever really loved and that is Sherlock.

 _Just tell him, you idiot. He looked at your lips for god’s sake! Best friends don’t stare into each other’s eyes and then look at their lips like they want to kiss him!_ John berates himself silently. _Just tell him how you feel!_

“Okay, here we are,” the cabbie announces, unaware of the turmoil of confused feelings he has stirred in both his passengers.

Sherlock opens his door, stepping out first. He doesn’t thank the cabbie, just opens the door and hurries up the stairs to their flat. John pays the driver, thanks him for his service, and he’s about to close the door when the cabbie says quietly, “Mate, it’s pretty clear to me that you love him and he loves you. If you haven’t told him how you feel yet, then I think you should.”

“I... I... “ John freezes and then sighs. “I think I will. Thanks.” He throws in a tenner as an extra tip, closes the door, and hurries after Sherlock. He finds Sherlock clearly in one of his moods, his violin already out and the melodic sounds of fury playing from his instrument. John watches for a minute; Sherlock is playing very quickly and the notes are all over the place- clearly this is an improvisation piece Sherlock is making up as he plays.

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock snaps, turning his back on his best friend as he continues to play and stare out the window at the same time. “You’re staring at me.”

“I want to talk to you about something.”

There’s a startled pause in Sherlock’s playing, and he plays louder to disguise his worry. _He’s not trying to talk about what I think he’s trying to talk about, is he?_

“Can’t it wait? I’m busy.”

“No! It can’t wait!” John says sharply, voice hard and loud, and so unlike John that they both are startled. John shakes his head, feeling his heart pound in his chest. “It’s always something. You and I are always making up excuses, always dodging the one conversation that needs to be had. We are always too “busy” to talk about it, we are always trying to hide behind someone- or something- and if I walk away now and go make supper, we’ll never have this conversation, and we’ll, _I’ll_ , die regretting never having this conversation with you.”

Sherlock plays one note, a D on his A string, and draws the note out. The note, despite only being one note and as simple as can be, is sharp and beautiful and… hopeful. “What are you saying?” Sherlock asks quietly, placing his violin in his case and leaning against the wall, giving John his full attention.

Under Sherlock’s hard gaze, John feels some of his confidence melting away. Sherlock has always said he is married to work… how can he really believe that Sherlock has feelings for him? How can he even think something so absurd- that someone as smart and handsome and _perfect_ as Sherlock Holmes would actually have feelings for someone as plain and weak and simple and unattractive as him?  

 _“Mate, it’s pretty clear to me that you love him and he loves you…”_ The cabbie’s words ring in John’s head and he swallows hard, daring to believe.

“I think we need to talk about us,” John says softly, voice small. Despite his frantically beating heart, he presses on, “About when I was in the hospital and what we both said- that we… that we l-like each other and care about each other. I think we need to talk about all the times we’ve been confused for a c-couple, and how we are considered each other’s weaknesses by our enemies because they know that we would do anything to protect and save each other…” He trails off, breath hitching in his chest when he sees that absolute look of shock on Sherlock’s face. He suddenly questions himself all over again. The cabbie doesn’t know a thing about him and Sherlock, he must have been reading too much into their staring. Why would he ever think for a second that Sherlock likes him when-

“John.” Sherlock’s voice cuts into his frantic fury of whirling thoughts and John could cry because Sherlock sounds so caring and gentle and John’s so sure that his tone of voice is only being used so John can gently be told off, or turned down…

“I didn’t know what I was saying, I’m sorry!” John says quickly before Sherlock can say anything.

“I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve by this conversation, I don’t know what I wanted or what I wanted you to say… I’m sorry,” John whimpers and God he needs to get out of here right now. He does not want Sherlock to see him cry.

Sherlock steps closer to his best friend, eyes soft. “I think I do… so don’t worry, I’ll take care of it for you,” Sherlock smiles slightly, “I think I know what you are trying to say, and I feel the same way as you.” He takes another step closer to John, who looks ready to cry, both out of fear and what seems to be relief that Sherlock is deciding to finish their conversation for him. “We have avoided this conversation for far too long now, for years…” Sherlock pauses and shrugs. “I like you, John. I have for a long time now. I like you, a lot, and I want to be with you.”

Then, Sherlock closes the distance between them with one final step. “Is this what you were trying to say?” Sherlock whispers before taking John’s face in his hands and kissing him softly. In that moment, both men feel an overwhelming sense of peace come over them.

When they separate, John replies softly, “That is exactly what I was trying to say,” and kisses Sherlock again. After that, Sherlock no longer introduces them to someone as “I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate/friend/blogger John Watson” but rather, “I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is John Watson, my boyfriend.”

Neither man has ever been happier.

 

 **“I’ve got your back."**  

“You should have stayed away,” Gregory hisses, pressing the knife against John’s neck. “Except for maybe this one here-” He applies more force to John’s neck, causing the doctor to wince and draw in his breath, “No one missed you.”

“On the contrary, I can think of a lot of people who missed him. You know though, if you die tonight, no one will miss _you_ ,” John retorts to Gregory, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s in a silent plead. _Help me._

“Watch what you say,” Gregory snaps. He adjusts his position behind John, his knife drawing blood as he draws his knife down John’s neck.

Sherlock watches the thin trail of blood following the knife’s path, feeling hatred surge through him because this man has hurt John- has hurt _his_ John, and no one does that and gets away with it. No one.

“You should learn to control your boyfriend,” Gregory continues. “His bold and quick temper might cause problems for you later.”

“I’ve been told I’m the one with the quick temper,” Sherlock replies, pointing his gun at Gregory’s head. “What’s to say I don’t shoot you now?”

“Sherlock-”

“Shut up!” Gregory yells, knife causing more blood to spill from John’s neck at his pressure. “Put the gun down, Holmes! Do it right now or I’ll kill your boyfriend in front of you!”

“John, look at me,” Sherlock says, voice calm despite the look of worry and slight panic in his eyes.

John looks up, meets the eyes of his boyfriend, and relaxes at the reassuring look Sherlock gives him. His best friend, boyfriend, true love, all of these… has a plan. Sherlock has a plan.

“Shut up,” Gregory warns harshly.

Sherlock ignores Gregory. “John, do you trust me?”

“Of course,” John whispers, voice hoarse with pain.

“Good,” Sherlock says, and pulls the trigger of his- well, John’s- gun. John flinches away from the murderer a split second before the bullet goes into Gregory's skull, and he drops to the ground, dead.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, stumbling forward, away from the murderer and into the detective’s arms. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist, holding the doctor protectively as John murmurs words of thanks.

“I’ve got your back,” Sherlock promises, leaning down to kiss John’s forehead, and then his lips as he hugs him closer. “Always."

 

 **“Your smile is beautiful.”**  

“Where are we going?” John asks, gripping Sherlock’s hand gently as they walk briskly in the cold. The rest of London is darkened on the late Sunday evening in the middle of winter, but they are out and about, as the only two people stupid enough to go outside in the sub-zero temperatures.

“It’s a surprise,” Sherlock replies, wrapping one arm around John’s waist as they walk. “You’re cold.”

“Brilliant deduction,” John can’t help but tease. “It’s bloody cold out here, did you expect me to be warm?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says fondly. “We’re almost there, and we don’t want to be late, so hurry up!”

John stops walking, a small smile appearing on his face.

“What?” Sherlock looks back at his partner. “I just told you to hurry up, why did you stop walking?”

“We’re going to the cinema. Aren’t we?” The smile on John’s face broadens when he sees a faint blush tint Sherlock’s already red-from-the-cold cheeks.

“You weren’t supposed to be able to figure that out,” Sherlock grumbles as he and John continue walking.

Laughing, John remarks, “My boyfriend is the self-proclaimed, and rightly so, most intelligent man in all of London. In my opinion, in all the world, but I’ll stay quiet so I don’t embarrass you. I’ve spent the last five years, almost six years, living with you, so how could you possibly ever think that part of your intelligence hasn’t rubbed off on me?”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that you are so clever?” Sherlock laughs. “I’ll remember that the next time you complain about my being too smart for my own good, because according to you, some of my intellect has gone to you, which means I’m less smart than I was previously.”

“We’re going to a cinema,” John says cheerfully, both happy that he’s figured out his surprise, and happy because Sherlock had once scoffed at him when he had said he was taking his date to the cinema. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock holds the door open, and follows John into the brightly lit cinema.

“You said that going to the cinema was boring and would only help ruin our brains,” John reminds his boyfriend. “If that’s your take on this… why take me to the cinema?”

Sherlock blushes. “Because you enjoy watching films, and I know you wanted to see the picture they are showing tonight…”

“That’s really sweet of you,” John says softly, a fond smile on his face to match the adoring look in his eyes.

“Well, not really. It’s not that-”

“Yes, it is,” John interrupts, and he stands on his toes as he raises himself taller and kisses Sherlock gently. His face is lit up with a smile that shows his love for his boyfriend. “You’re the best.”

Sherlock can’t help the grin that appears on his face as he stares at his boyfriend with an affectionate look in his eyes.

“You’re staring at me,” John notes.

“Your smile is beautiful,” Sherlock states simply as an explanation for his staring. “Beautiful and stunning and perfect. Like you.”

“Like you too,” John smiles, leaning into Sherlock’s side gently, squeezing his hand. “Just like you."

 

 **“Call me when you get there.”**  

“Are you sure you have everything? Blankets, water, food, medical bag...” Sherlock rambles anxiously.

“Yes, yes of course I’m sure I have everything. You even double-checked my bags for me,” John smiles as he loads his bag into the boot of the car. “Worried?”

“I do not worry, John,” Sherlock huffs. “Please tell me you have your mobile, and it’s charged.”

“Yes I do.” John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, standing tall to kiss Sherlock gently on the lips. “It’s just a short trip, Sherlock. You know I have to do this. Harry needs me, and I can’t turn my own sister away… even if she’s been distant…” John shrugs sadly. “She’s my own living relative. I have to go and be with her. It will only be for a couple of weeks, at most.”

Sherlock waves that information away, as if it is unnecessary. “I know what you are doing is important… but you know just as well as I do what the weather should be like over the next twenty-four hours. Imagine if we do get the snow that is predicted, and you get stranded in the snow, or the cab breaks down… or something happens and I’m not there to help you…” Sherlock sighs, whispering, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing will happen to me,” John reassures. “Heaven forbid if something were to happen, I will call you, Mycroft, and Lestrade, in that order. Between three of you, someone will get to me before anything were to happen. Plus, you have supplied me with enough food and blankets to keep the cabbie and I alive for several days.”

“Fine,” Sherlock mutters, satisfied that his boyfriend will be okay. “Call me when you get there, okay? Let me know you are safe.” Seeing the wheels turn in John’s head, he quickly adds, “Yes, call me even if it’s the middle of the night. I want to know you have arrived safely.”

“Okay, I will.” John smiles. “Try not to miss me too much!” he adds with a smirk, hug, and a kiss before climbing into the back of the cab.

“I’ll try,” Sherlock whispers to himself as the cab is pulling away. He misses John already.

He tries not to be bored, he tries not to miss John too much, he really does try. Lestrade even tries to help him by supplying him with a cold case that Sherlock solves in a matter of hours. In the early morning hours, Sherlock is playing his violin in the sitting room; his music melancholy to fit his mood. He understands that Harry is dealing poorly after her “true love” as Harry had put it, had dumped her- and God, he knows where she is coming from because just the thought of losing John, either by them ending their relationship or… forbid the thought, John getting killed… the mere thought destroys him. He understands why Harry is so sad, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish John wasn’t leaving him. Especially with the weather so cold and with snow threatening to come. Snow that makes the roads icy and even the most experienced of drivers cautious and worried-

Sherlock startles at the loud ringing of his mobile, fumbling as he grabs his mobile and accepts the incoming call. “John?”

“Sherlock, I’ve arrived safely,” John says, voice tired from the long travel, but also sounding happy as he talks to his boyfriend. “You were waiting for my call?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffs.

“Right, you were playing your violin whilst you _weren’t_ waiting for my call. That was it, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock chuckles, not even bothering to lie anymore. “How’s Harry?”

“She’s upset, rightly so.” John sobers. “She really thought Nina was the right woman for her, ya know? I can’t imagine being in her place right now… I can’t imagine living without you in my life. I can’t even begin to fathom her pain; I’m not sure I want to.”

“You’re never going to go through that,” Sherlock says firmly, “Because you and I are always going to be together, I can promise you that.”

“Yeah?” The smile is heard in John’s voice. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Silence fills the phone line, but it’s a comfortable silence. Sherlock tries to calm his frantic mind; this is the closest they have ever been- well, at least, the closest he has ever been- to saying those three little words. _I love you._

They sound natural, Sherlock decides. They sound right. _I love you. He loves John._ Great, he’s admitted to himself what he’s known probably from the day they met. Now he just has to build the nerve to tell John those three little words. Three little words, yet somehow they mean everything. The past and how they have felt for a long time, the present and how they feel now, and the future. What they will always feel, and want to always feel. Love. For each other.

 _When he’s home,_ Sherlock decides, _I’ll tell him._

 

 **“I love you.”**  

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” comes the voice of the gunman. Sherlock closes his eyes, preparing himself for the end. He hasn’t come to terms with his death- he never will forgive himself for not telling John how he feels about him, will always regret not living to live the life he wants to live with John at his side, maybe as his husband. That would have been nice. That would have been _amazing_.

The safety is clicked off, and Sherlock braces himself. _I love you, John,_ he thinks brokenly, although he’s relieved that John isn’t here now because it would be John in his place, preparing his last goodbye, resigning to his fate of being murdered in cold blood- anything to protect Sherlock- which is why Sherlock decides in his final second that maybe his death won’t be so bad; he’s dying in order to protect John which makes everything worth-

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and everything happens in slow motion. The sudden, and hard slam against his body, knocking him to the ground, the gunshot, followed by a second gunshot, the simultaneous grunts of pain, and then the sounds of two bodies hitting the ground.

“John!” Sherlock screams, scrambling to his feet and looking- and finding- the lifeless body of his boyfriend on the ground a few feet away. Already blood is gushing from the single gunshot wound in John’s chest, and Sherlock begins to cry before he can even kneel down on the ground besides his partner.

Ten feet away lies the gunman, a bullet through his head. John had pushed Sherlock out of the way, shooting the gunman and killing him even as he was shot himself. With one shaky hand, Sherlock covers John’s wound, stopping the loss of blood. With his other hand, he reaches for a pulse.

“I- I’m okay,” John stutters, eyes fluttering open weakly. “Sher-”

“Don’t talk,” Sherlock orders, tears unknowingly streaming down his cheeks as he tears his scarf off and applies pressure to John’s chest, which causes John to scream in pain. “S-sorry,” Sherlock whimpers. He searches John’s pockets with his free hand, calls Mycroft because he can get them help the fastest, and pleads for help, and then he calls Lestrade. Does the same- begs for help to come because John is shot and bleeding and…

“Hurts,” John whispers, eyes fluttering closed.

“No! John, stay with me, please open your eyes!” Sherlock begs, breath hitching in his chest. “Please, don’t l-leave me, John. Please…”

John willingly complies, opening his eyes and staring up at Sherlock through pain-filled eyes, whispers, “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock whimpers, feeling like he’s been the one shot because he knows he is losing the love of his life. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I k-know that,” John sighs. “I had to push you, Sherlock. ‘M sorry, couldn’t let... you get hurt…”

Sherlock sobs when John’s eyes close again. If John dies, Sherlock is going to grab John’s gun and kill himself. He can’t live without John- he refuses to live without the one person who means the world to Sherlock and makes his life bright, and happy, and good. He won’t.

“John!” Sherlock reaches for a pulse. It’s weak, and faint, but there. “John, p-please don’t l-leave me. I l-love you and I know I’ve never told you but I love you with everything in me… and I want to be there for you during your bad days and I want to take care of you when you are ill and I want to hold you and make you feel better, always be there for you, always make you smile… oh please John, don’t leave me…”

The warehouse falls silent besides the sounds of Sherlock’s desperate sobbing.

“Yes.” The whisper is so soft that Sherlock almost misses it, but he doesn’t, and he looks down at his boyfriend and finds that John’s eyes are open again and John is looking at him.

“What?”

“I want to marry you too…” John breathes tiredly, “And, do everything you just said… for you.”

“Sherlock!”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock feels his heart soar. They have help. It’s going to be okay. Mycroft appears, his men in black behind him, and a medical team equipped with doctors and paramedics right besides Sherlock’s brother.

“I love you too…” John murmurs, and allows unconsciousness to overtake him.

Five days later, in the hospital, when John is awake and recovering and well on his way to being okay, Sherlock kneels down and asks John to marry him. There’s absolutely no doubt in John’s mind as he says yes, and when Sherlock slides the engagement ring onto his finger, John whispers, “I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock smiles, kissing him, and together once again, this time forever, everything seems to be good and brilliant in the world. Because now it’s SherlockAndJohn, and they are in love and will be together for the rest of their lives.

Later that night, when John wakes up in the middle of the night and looks over at his beautiful, sleeping peacefully fiancé, he sees nothing but the face of the man he loves and is lucky enough to spend the rest of his life with. John studies his engagement ring with a fond smile, and notices there is an engravement on his ring.

_Forever. SH._

“Forever,” John whispers, leaning over to kiss Sherlock softly on the lips before laying down besides his fiancé. And, forever they remain together, in love with each other, always.

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the fandom I usually write for. In fact, I wasn't part of this fandom until a few weeks ago when I put some research into Sherlock so I could write this story for my best friend (who ships Johnlock) as a birthday gift. Much thanks to my friends Alyssa and Lydia who proof-read this for me, and to my friend Tune for providing me with some information on the ship. And, a huge thank you to all the writers who write Johnlock fanfiction. When I was putting research into the fandom, I read a lot of fanfiction, and it is thanks to all the very talented writers in this fandom that I was able to write something that (hopefully) sounds something like how John and Sherlock would sound in the show. You are all wonderful, extremely talented writers. I hope you enjoyed this. x


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